


Not Just His Father

by Sera_Clay



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-13 06:51:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 17,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4512099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sera_Clay/pseuds/Sera_Clay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lizzington, angst, romance, baby!fic. Liz asks Red to become the father of her baby. <br/>I started this story after I saw a post on LS where someone was looking for a story with this theme.<br/>I don't own the characters, the show, or a Greek island.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Promising Start

Raymond Reddington expected great results from the investigative journalists he selected, but nothing like what they actually produced.

Within two months, an audio recording of Connelly threatening Liz surfaced; within three, the the deceased attorney general's misdeeds as exposed in the national press led to an offer of a pardon for Elizabeth Keen.

No corresponding grant of immunity was extended to Red; evidently, the FBI was no longer interested in his blacklist, having so many larger Cabal targets to take down. But they weren't that concerned with pursuing him either - he was no longer high on the Most Wanted list.

Liz didn't choose to return to the United States; for the last few months, she has been ensconced on a Greek island in the villa Red purchased for her, decorating by mail order.

All the profiling skills she had worked so hard to acquire over the years are being put to use by Red's associates, who contact her, and pay her, solely via the Internet. 

Red visits her as often as he dares.

She waves happily at him from her whitewashed terrace above the azure sea as his yacht pulls into the small private harbor. Standing on deck, he looks up the cliff, his eyes following the line of the private funicular up to her small figure.

She is wearing a white dress, he can see that much, and a big straw hat.

His Lizzie.

She seems excited to see him. Perhaps at last there will be time, and space, for him to offer her more than just income and protection. Now that she is settled, and productive, perhaps they can talk about the future.

Red waves back, pleased that his new white suit matches her dress, looking forward to dinner and conversation and perhaps, just perhaps, some sign of warmer feelings, now that she is safe, her pardon signed, her passport restored.

In the enforced intimacy of their months on the run, he has fallen even more deeply in love with her, managing to keep his feelings to himself only by dint of occasional coldness that pushed her away, and impossibly long showers.

Her tone with him by now is familiar, affectionate. But it never crosses the line.

She never flirts, or teases.

But she hugs him in greeting, and when he departs. She shares her thoughts and feelings freely. 

Surely that's a promising start.

***

Liz waves at Red again, enjoying the way he tips his head back, his hat somehow remaining firmly on his head, and then waves back once more.

She's missed him more than she expected.

She has started to make friends in the village on the other side of the island, and learning modern Greek has provided hours of entertainment, and of course she has contacts around the world that she can reach by video chat.

If she really needs more company, she can always fly to Athens, or for that matter, to Rome, but she loves the seclusion of the island. And the shifting colors of the sea and the sky, the way the breeze is always fresh.

She feels so free here.

After two years in a blacksite, then months on the run, in fear of lifetime imprisonment, this island is perfect.

And she has finally figured out what's next for her in her life. She doesn't want to be alone forever. She's ready to take the next step.

So she needs to talk to Red. Liz is sure he'll understand, and approve. He knows her better than anyone.

He may even have seen this coming.


	2. What Liz Wants Next

Dinner on the terrace includes simple grilled meats and an array of salads Liz confessed to having purchased from a Belgian friend who enjoys cooking. There's a small expat community centered around a sailing school on the other side of the island, just north of the village.

The table is promisingly set with white candles and a loosely woven blue cloth, and the high, rosy glow of an impending sunset warms their faces and turns the whitewashed house and terrace pink.

Liz welcomed him, then urged him to repair to her guest room to unpack and freshen up. She knows he prefers to shave before dinner, and put on a clean shirt.

"Red, I have something important to discuss with you."

"Oh, yes?"

Red gives her what he hopes is an encouraging, but still suitably neutral smile. The last time they spoke, she shyly asked if she could spend certain sums on redecorating the villa. A small amount he wouldn't have even noticed leaving his accounts.

"Yes, although I'm not quite sure how to start."

Hope stirs in Red, as her cheeks brighten with a faint blush. Liz looks so strong and healthy again, lightly tan and very relaxed. 

"You know you can tell me anything, don't you, Lizzie?"

He tries for merely fond, hearing his voice slip a little deeper on her name. Easy, he can't be sure what she's asking, yet.

She gives him a wide, white smile, her blue eyes bright.

"Oh, Red, have I ever told you how glad I am that you're not my father?"

His heart almost seizes and Red clutches the underside of the table, trying not to react. He fumbles with his napkin on his lap, raises it to pat his lips.

"You are, Lizzie?"

She gives a happy little sigh.

"Yes, because I know you really care about me for myself."

Red nods, almost holding his breath. He wants to reach across the table and take her hand, but she's still talking, waving her hands expressively as she speaks.

He reaches for his wine glass and takes a sip of the chilled white wine, noticing that hers is still almost full.

"So I've figured out what I want to do next."

She looks so serious as she looks across the table. He nods, his heart pounding so hard he's afraid she'll hear it, or notice the pulse he knows is beating at the base of his throat.

Red has spent too many hours in front of a mirror, perfecting his poker face, to be unaware of his own tells.

"The reason Tom and I planned to adopt was that he couldn't have children."

Red swallows, unable to prevent his mind from jumping directly to the begetting of children. Is she asking him? Is this even possible?

"Red, I've decided that I'm ready to be a mother. I want a child of my own."

He nods, feeling his eyes fill with tears.

"And you're the person I'm closest to in the whole world. The man I respect the most."

Red opens his mouth, finds himself so moved he's unable to speak. He tries to nod his assent to her, aware that his smile coming out shaky. 

Liz reaches out and takes his hand, gives it a squeeze. Her slim fingers are cold, as if she's nervous. 

"There are some excellent clinics in Milan - would you be willing to go there with me? Make my dream of becoming a parent come true?"


	3. A Choice

She can smell the familiar smoke of his Cuban cigar drifting in from the porch outside the guestroom upstairs.

Red seemed so moved, but he didn't give her an answer. He asked instead for time to think about it, then speedily retreated.

Was it because he lost his wife and daughter, so long ago? Liz has seen photographs in his FBI file - a pretty child, with long, wavy hair, too young to distinguish Red's features, or those of her mother, his wife. 

She can't imagine what it must have taken for him to start life anew after that tragedy. Their few months on the run have taught her how unsuited she is to an itinerant lifestyle. 

Liz clears the dishes and stacks them in the sink. Her housekeeper Dimitra will wash them tomorrow, and iron the tablecloth, and trim the half-burnt candles.

All will be as it was before, except that she will have her answer. She hopes he will tell her 'yes' tonight. She's too excited to sleep.

A girl or a boy - she'd be happy with either.

Red visits her often enough that the child will come to know him. She has everything planned out. Which room will serve as the nursery. Even a possible choice for a nanny from the village, Miriam, a young art student who has experience with infants. Liz doesn't plan to stop working.

She returns to sit on the terrace, sipping at her wine. The sea below still dances with the last light of the vanishing sun, as the stars emerge above. She hears his footsteps behind her. The sound of safety and security.

"The answer is yes, Lizzie. I would be honored."

His voice is deep and husky, filled with intense emotion. She just isn't sure exactly what.

He doesn't sound as happy as she expected.

She turns her head, expecting him to come out and sit with her, but he's gone again, back up the stairs to his room.

A baby. She's going to have a baby.

She draws her feet up under her and imagines a small face, smiling up at her, intelligent green eyes wide. For some reason, she always imagines the baby will have Red's eyes.

***

"It's just logistics."

Red continues his methodical packing despite Dembe looming behind him.

"Raymond, if you do this, you will regret it."

Red stops and leans down on the pile of neatly folded undershirts, pressing them flat, then looks over his shoulder at Dembe.

"Do you think I don't know that?"

Dembe arches his eyebrows, his expression stern.

"Then call her. Change your mind. Cancel your flight."

Red counts his changes of clothing one more, then shuts and latches the suitcase.

"Dembe, the only thing I would regret more is saying no, and then watching her raise somebody else's baby."

"You didn't tell her how you feel about her."

That wasn't a question. Red allows his annoyance to color his response.

"I couldn't do it. That would have sounded ... pathetic." He hefts the suitcase off the bed and sets it by the door. Just a few more small items to pack. He has plenty of time. "She would have become uncomfortable, and quite possibly changed her mind."

Dembe stands watching him as Red puts on his watch, tucks his wallet in his pocket. Gathers up his books from the nightstand. The room seems to vibrate with his disapproval.

"And it will be easier once she's pregnant? Or nursing your baby?"

Red glares at Dembe. Those thoughts are both delicious, and achingly painful. The woman he loves, creating a new family. His family. But all he can do now is hope. Hope to be a part of that family, to stay as close as possible.

Or he could walk away completely. Never see her again. He just can't bear to take that step.

"What if she decides to start dating? Perhaps she'll ask you to watch your child so she can spend a weekend with another man?"

Red's legs no longer want to support him. He sits down heavily on the side of the bed, staring at Dembe in amazement. He's rarely cruel. There must be some reason.

"Why, Dembe?" His voice emerges small, but he watches Dembe's face carefully, alert for any clue.

"I do not want to watch you do this, Raymond." He shakes his head, then sits down on the bed at Red's side. "You love Elizabeth. You will want to keep her and the child close, and protect them. But you will be keeping a secret from her, once again."

Red's lips twitch in irritation. As if he hasn't been keeping this secret almost since he met her.

Dembe evidently interprets his expression correctly.

"Raymond, there is nothing but suffering ahead for you, if you do this."

Red shakes his head. Even Dembe doesn't know about his second daughter, an old secret buried so deep that even Red rarely thinks about her, these days.

The baby born in Canada, in the first five years after he became a fugitive. A premature little girl with Red's hair and her mother's pale blue eyes, who died in infancy. Swiftly followed by the suicide of her mother, beautiful, unstable, and one of the best forgers Red has ever known.

He didn't love her, had refused to marry her, but his daughter Lilli? The time he spent with her was pure joy.

He's been exceptionally careful, though, not to father any more children since then.

"You're wrong, Dembe." Red reaches over and gives his friend a firm pat on the knee. "If this makes Lizzie happy, then I will find some happiness in it, too."


	4. A Wonderful Father

Liz looks out the window of the big, high-ceilinged hotel suite Red has procured for them at the bustle of the city street below, and lets out a sigh of pure happiness. Milan is one of her favorite cities. Together, they passed through the city twice while in flight.

"Red?" she calls out, not looking over her shoulder. She can hear him getting settled in his room.

"Yes, Lizzie?"

She turns from the window as he approaches, in his shirtsleeves with his cuffs rolled up, but still wearing his tie and his vest. Not planning on a siesta before dinner, then. They won't eat until at least nine.

"Did you make a reservation at that little place with the fish?"

"Actually, Dembe booked a table for the three of us."

Liz makes a face at Red.

"He doesn't approve of what we're doing," she tells him. "He's going to give me sad looks all evening."

Red shrugs.

"Dembe is family. I invited him to travel with me, and he accepted."

"Probably to try and talk you out of this," she returns, watching as Red shrugs again, clearly a little uncomfortable with their conversation. That telltale scratch at the top of his head confirms it.

"I'm right, aren't I? He doesn't want us to have a child?"

"He has strong opinions on a number of issues that differ from mine," Red tells her, his eyes warm on her face. "Don't let them concern you, Lizzie. He will love our child, once he or she is born."

This seems like as good a time as any, Red's face open and affectionate. 

"You never answered my question about wanting a boy or a girl."

As part of the procedure for artificial insemination, she can choose the sex of the baby, with a high although not guaranteed rate of success.

The corners of Red's mouth turn down. She knows he's not looking forward to the physical exam required by the clinic, and when they read through a detailed disclosure on each step the clinic would take to ensure success, he seemed a bit apalled at the sperm washing procedures that would be employed.

"Let's allow nature to take her course on that point, at least," he responds in a low voice. "Unless you have a preference?"

Liz lets out a small sigh of relief that she didn't realize she was holding in. She really didn't want to try and choose.

"No preference, Red."

He looks relieved as well, and it occurs to her that this is only one of innumerable conversations she will have with him over the years regarding their child.

The next one, of course, being the name.

Liz stands looking at him for so long that Red's gaze turns quizzical.

"Was there something else, Lizzie? Because I'm still not fully unpacked, and I know you were planning on some shopping before supper."

For such a dangerous man, his face is so soft when he smiles at her, his neatly trimmed silver hair and clean-shaven jaw evidence of the meticulous care he takes with his appearance. His clothing is always clean and pressed, his sturdy, custom-made shoes are always shined.

He's just so dependable.

He'll be a wonderful father.

Liz feels her eyes begin to fill with tears. She tells herself the emotion is just that time in her cycle, carefully timed to be at the clinic for her first attempt at IUI. In two or three days, she'll be on her way to motherhood.

Red steps closer, reaches out, and gently strokes her cheek with the back of his knuckles.

"Not having doubts are you, Lizzie?"

His fingers are so warm, and they smell faintly of the complex, masculine scent she's come to associate with Red. She closes her eyes for a moment, then shakes her head.

"No, Red, no doubts."

She's not having doubts, although both before and after making her request to him, she's wondered what he would have said if she asked him to get her pregnant the old-fashioned way.

She just couldn't find a way to speak those words to him. To ask him to take off his clothes, and take her to bed. Even in their months on the run together, she never saw him unclothed, and similarly, he carefully respected her privacy as well.

He's always been intense in his interactions with her, whether affectionate, critical, or complimentary. But he's never displayed any sexual interest in her, none of the caressing tones and gestures he's offered to other, older women in her presence. In comparison with the way he behaved with Luli or Madeline, she might as well have been his daughter.

He's clearly a passionate man, based on his outrageous stories, but also a very private man, as well.

She made the right choice. For both of them.


	5. What If?

Red and Dembe step back to allow Liz to precede them through the discreet, unlabeled door that leads to the intake area of the clinic. A code was required to enter the building, and while the suite is numbered, there is no name on the door. The halls are thickly carpeted and the expensive light fixtures are colorful examples of modern glass art.

There's still a faintly medical smell, however; filtered air mixed with rubbing alcohol.

The waiting room is empty, and Red and Dembe sit together close to the door as Liz is led back for her examination.

Red sits with his knees pressed together, staring down at the light, pinstriped fabric of his suit pants. Dembe on one side, his fedora on the other. He's still wearing his sunglasses, grateful for the protection they provide. Liz was so excited this morning she barely ate any breakfast.

Red had far too much coffee.

He absolutely hates doctors, and examinations. Not just the indignity of it, the prodding and touching, but also the questions. His body is covered with scars; some old enough that he's the only person alive who knows the story behind them.

But he'd do anything for Lizzie. That's what he needs to remember. 

This is no worse than being imprisoned. Although he doesn't have the oddly comforting excuse of being tied up or shackled. In the past, when he's been restrained in some way, Red has allowed himself to lean into the sensation, to relax and find some perverse enjoyment in the experience, for once, of not being in control.

Although so far, he's survived and reasserted control over all of those situations successfully.

"You are not nervous." Dembe's deep voice is lowered to a whisper, still shockingly loud in the empty room.

"No." Red knows his tone is flat and harsh. He offers an apologetic smile. "Just want to get it over with."

He's read the description of the required procedures more than once, then grilled the doctor privately by phone. He's young, ambitious, and discreet, flattered to be employed by the concierge of crime. Red hasn't bothered to tell him that Liz selected the clinic, and then Red ensured that he was hired.

He hasn't told Liz, either. 

He just reassured her that use of this particular clinic would not compromise his safety, or his freedom.

Liz doesn't know about his scars, but some of them, particularly the burns on his back and the multitude of cuts and burns on his thighs, are well-known among certain factions of the criminal underworld. And there's always a price on his head.

Thinking about the current threats, and what he's doing to neutralize them, occupies him until Liz emerges, beaming.

"Your turn," she tells Red, sitting down opposite Dembe rather than at his side. They are still a little stiff with each other, although dinner the previous night went smoothly.

Red scoops up his hat and puts it on, tugging it down over his eyes before following the nurse back into the clinic.

Like anything else, he knows he will get through this if he just concentrates on the next choice, and then the next.

Among the tests to be done today is as assessment of the potency of his sperm. Even the thought of it gives him a strange, sick feeling. What if he's not able to impregnate Liz, after all?


	6. The Next Afternoon

The next afternoon Dembe again accompanies Red and Liz to the clinic.

She's a little reluctant, given his disapproval, but Red assured her that Dembe's presence is essential for their protection.

The clinic is perfectly safe. In reality, Red wants Dembe there for support.

His exam went so well that the doctor even ventured to ask if Red was certain they had tried long enough before considering IUI. 

This time he is led to the back of the clinic first, to produce the sample. It takes him longer than he expected, despite privacy and a wide variety of magazines for visual stimulation, some apparently catering to very unusual tastes.

Finally, he just thinks about Liz, elegantly dressed today in a cocoa linen sheath dress and matching heels, her jewelry all gold set with chunks of amber.

Not her color palate, but somehow so appealing, pale in contrast to her blue eyes blazing with excitement. Red imagines backing her against the wall of their hotel suite, running his fingers beneath the mid-thigh hem of her dress, then pushing it up slowly to expose her lower body to his avid gaze.

In his mind's eye, she's wearing tiny, white lace thong panties that are just a little too tight. When he sets his hands at her hips, then runs his thumbs over her, one then the other, tapping and rubbing her as she lets out little cries in response to his increasing firm touch, the texture of the soaked lace pressed tight against her sensitive flesh, he can almost smell her customary perfume, mingled with the scent of her arousal. A scent he can only imagine.

When he's close, he at last allows himself to imagine taking just one finger, his right middle finger, and crooking it past the tight, wet scrap of lace to thrust it deep inside her.

"Yes, Red, yes, yes," she cries out, her head pressed against the wall, her mouth falling open, and he kisses her deeply, his tongue moving in the rhythm of his finger inside her, his hand slowing, harder, harder, until suddenly he has to fumble for the plastic cup as he imagines her clenching down on his finger, so tight and so slick.

Red places the lid on the cup, then wipes himself clean. There's a sink to wash his hands, and he does so carefully, washing then drying beneath his nails as well. He tosses the hand towel he placed across his lap into the covered basket provided for that purpose, and casts his gaze around the room.

If the procedure is successful, he will thankfully never see this room again. And yet, it is a part of the journey to having a family once again. Red doesn't want to forget it. 

He places the cup in the hand of the waiting nurse, and makes his way back to the waiting room.

Both Dembe and Liz look up hopefully at his arrival, which suddenly strikes Red as extremely funny.

They will of course want to know that he's done what is necessary. He'd wager, though, that neither of them has any words prepared to ask him about such a private matter.

He smiles at them both in a neutral fashion, giving nothing away, and then seats himself beside Dembe again, setting his fedora down once more before taking out his phone and ostentatiously scrolling through his messages.

"Well?" asks Liz, finally, leaning forward with her legs crossed, her linen dress riding up higher on her thighs.

He glances up, chuckling inwardly at the concern on her face.

"Yes, Lizzie?" he asks her, pursing his lips to avoid laughing out loud as she struggles to come up with a question.

Dembe steps in.

"The doctor will call you back soon, Elizabeth."

Fair enough. Dembe knows Red well enough to detect the subtle signs of relaxation that Liz has missed.

She rolls her eyes as her shoulders slump in relief, then she sits back and pulls out her own phone as well.


	7. Conception

Unclothed, Liz is seated on the table, with a thick, white cotton drape covering her body, when the doctor enters the room, followed by the nurse. He's carrying a labeled container, and she looks at it, reads the label, and nods in response to his inquiry.

Red's baby. She's really going to do this.

"Would you like the father to be present?" he asks her unexpectedly. He's young, with thick, shiny dark hair and a little mustache that reminds her of Clark Gable.

"Oh, I don't think he cares much for medical procedures," she demurs. She and Red have agreed to tell the clinic they have been trying and failing to get pregnant for years. 

"He can sit by your head and hold your hand," the doctor persists. "He won't be able to see anything, but you will be together as your baby is conceived."

Her eyes fill with tears. Conceived. Such a thoughtful word for what she's about to undergo.

Liz doesn't mind medical exams, but she's been feeling a little emotional about the way she has chosen to begin her pregnancy. He's making this seem so normal.

Of course, for him, this is probably a daily occurrence.

"No, thank you, doctor." She doesn't want Red to see her like this. Her dress and underthings are hanging neatly behind a discreet curtain in one corner of the room.

"Lie back, then and relax," the doctor says. "This should not hurt, but you will need to lie still afterwards until the nurse comes to get you." 

She closes her eyes and tries to relax. It's been a long time since someone touched that part of her body. Tom. Jacob. Whatever his name is now. When they said goodbye on his boat.

She's been meaning to ask Red whether he survived the exposure of the Cabal. Somehow, she's pretty convinced that he didn't. He hasn't contacted her, for one thing. And Red has kept her informed as to the status of his various operatives over the last few months.

Mr. Kaplan has been in Iceland, of all places.

If her ex-husband was safe and doing well, Red would surely have told her.

There's a pinching sensation deep in her body. She needs to think about Red, now.

He's her future. At least, his son or daughter will be.

***

They plan to leave Milan the next day, Red and Dembe bound for China, Liz returning to Greece. She'll call Red with the results of the pregnancy test.

She'll wait two weeks before taking it, just to be sure.

"I will plan on Milan next month, just in case," Red assures her, as Dembe brushes past her carrying Red's bags. Her flight departs later, so she intends to visit the spa and then eat lunch at the hotel before taking a cab to the airport.

She's flown by herself often in the past few months - why does it feel like he's abandoning her?

"Hopefully you can cancel those plans," she responds, watching as he turns his hat in his hands, seemingly at a loss for words.

He's warmly dressed for the November weather. She's wearing yoga pants and a tight crop top, black trimmed with royal blue, and inexpensive blue thongs.

"Good luck with the rice scam," she says finally. A racketeer has been selling expensive varieties of rice and delivering poor quality product instead. Red plans to turn the tables on him and bankrupt him, before sweeping the remnants of his organization into the unforgiving grasp of the Chengguan.

"Be safe, Lizzie," he returns, his customary farewell.

As he turns to go, she realizes she never says that back to him. She hasn't even hugged him.

He's seemed a little distant since their visit to the clinic. Tired, and perhaps a bit worried.

"Wait, Red."

He turns back, brows raised, hat pulled low over his dark-circled eyes. She heard him moving quietly about the suite late last night - did he even sleep at all?

"You be safe, too," she tells him. Wanting him to smile at her, to say something more. She's not quite sure what.

Red stands stiffly in his charcoal suit and black overcoat, clearly ready to be gone. 

"Come back safe to me," she repeats.

He gives her a brisk nod.

"Will do, Lizzie."

Then he's out the door, following Dembe to the hotel stairs, which as usual they prefer to the elevator.

She lays her hand on her flat belly, tries to imagine a baby beginning to grow inside her.

Now that he's gone, that prospect seems somehow unreal.


	8. Nothing He Needs To Do

He was gone for four months. It wasn't what he planned, but issues in China became rather more involved than expected. In touch with Liz only at brief intervals by phone, he runs through their conversations again and again in his mind. Especially that first call, their longest to date.

"Red, I'm pregnant!"

Not even a greeting to start the call, just those excited words, at exactly two weeks from their visit to the clinic.

"Congratulations!" He gives Dembe the thumbs up sign, and the younger man just shakes his head dolefully before continuing to count out stacks of wrinkled yuan.

Liz tells him the entire story of the pregnancy test, which of her friends she told first, and exactly what they said and did upon receiving the news. He listens to her rattling on, smiling and occasionally interjecting a helpful phrase. 

Her friends on the island know him only as a reclusive billionaire whom Liz has previously described as an old friend of the family. He hadn't expected her to share the fact that he's the father of her child, and is frankly flabbergasted when she confides that she hasn't explained about the IUI.

"You didn't tell them you and I are in some sort of relationship, did you?" he asks her, his tone curt with surprise and concern. He doesn't want to have to play a role when he visits.

"No, of course not."

She sounds hurt. He's not quite sure how to repair the damage, so he sails breezily onwards.

"We're making money hand over fist here, Lizzie," he tells her. "And best of all, we're also finding it easier than expected to acquire local boots on the ground. The corruption at all levels of government is fabulous!"

'When will you be back?" she asks, and he can hear something new in her voice. Almost a reproach. He needs to cut that off at the knees.

His schedule can't be predictable. And surely a little jealousy never hurt?

"That's not entirely my decision, Lizzie." He pauses, glancing over at Dembe to see if he's listening. He seems preoccupied with his counting. "My hostess, Madame Tang, has some very definite ideas on the subject of when I should depart."

He listens to Liz breathing through the phone as his eyes come to rest on the lotus shaped silver bowl on the table before him. Tang Dynasty, one of the finest examples he's ever seen outside of a museum. There are definite advantages to robbing the most wealthy of his fellow criminals.

"Well, you'll be excited to see the nursery whenever you do arrive," she recovers, finally, beginning to chatter on again about the way she's decorated the spare room, and what she's learned from her reading about optimal diet in pregnancy.

He won't make promises he can't keep. And there's nothing he needs to do for her in early pregnancy, anyway.

It's not as if he'll be lying in bed at her side, feeling her belly grow beneath his fingers.


	9. A Visit

Liz settles her long, loose caftan over her head with pleasure, warm after the cool water of her afternoon shower. The undyed cotton is embroidered with colorful flowers, the hem trimmed in locally tatted lace. Her thick, dark hair hangs in heavy waves down her back, drying swiftly in the warm air emanating from the small wall heater in her bathroom.

Red is arriving after nightfall, the first time she's seen him since Milan.

She'll dress up before he arrives, but for now, she pads on bare feet to the kitchen to cut up some more fruit.

At least her cravings are for healthy foods, not junk. At least so far.

As she perches on a stool, eating thin slices of apple, an unexpected sound gradually impinges on her consciousness. A helicopter, approaching fast.

Gathering up the last handful of apple slices, she wanders to the terrace, shielding her eyes against the pale winter sun as she watches it sail overhead, then circle, before touching down on the low flat roof of her garage.

Red was supposed to arrive by yacht tonight. 

Liz hurries through the house and flings open the front door. Red, followed by Dembe, is descending the steps from the garage as the helicopter lifts off once more.

She waves at him, and his pace quickens, Dembe falling behind with a suitcase in each hand.

"Lizzie! You look radiant!"

Liz throws her arms wide, and after the briefest of hesitations, Red gathers her close and hugs her. The fabric of his three piece suit is scratchy against her face, but his familiar smell comforts her, and she holds him tight, feeling his hands on her back, stroking her gently through the thin, loose cotton of her dress.

She isn't wearing a bra or underwear, but surely he's wearing sufficient layers to preserve her decency?

"Missed me, have you?" he chuckles. "And how are the two of you today?"

She draws back, a little embarrassed to be clinging to him so tightly.

"We are doing splendidly," she announces, then looks over his shoulder. "Welcome, Dembe, I hope you enjoyed China?"

He gives a little dip of his head, the faintest of smiles.

"Yes, thank you, Elizabeth."

Dembe still isn't happy. She hasn't been able to figure out why, though. It can't be jealousy - he travels with Red constantly. That won't change once the baby is born. Her best guess is that Dembe doesn't think that she's good enough for Red.

"Come in, both of you, and make yourselves at home." Liz leads the way into the house, stepping back for them to ascend the stairs to the guest rooms they usually occupy. "I'll open some wine, if you'd like?"

Red frowns at her, tipping his sunglasses down his nose to peer over them at her.

"No, Red, I won't be drinking any of it," she assures him.

As soon as they are out of sight, she hurries into her room and flings the caftan on the bed, then pulls on a pink cotton bra and matching panties. Her breasts are tender already, and swollen. This bra is new, but it already feels a little tight. She's about to pull a dress from the closet, then she stops and looks back at the caftan. It's so comfortable, and he's already seen her wearing it.

She pulls it back on and goes back to open the wine. Fortunately, she has dishes of olives and other savories ready to set out for snacks.

Liz wants Red well fed, with a glass of wine in his hand, for the next conversation.


	10. A Discussion

When Dembe leaves him alone momentarily, Red washes his hands and face, then stares at himself in the mirror. He's pale and weary, his face showing the weight he gained during their prolonged stay in China. The air quality precluded walking, and the food was incredible.

Liz, on the other hand, is glowing with early pregnancy.

The feel of her curvy, bare body beneath the thin fabric of her dress as she pressed herself against him is burned into his skin forever. She's so beautiful. Being in her arms feels like home. He can't believe he's been gone so long.

"Raymond?"

Dembe taps at the door, and he hurriedly dries his face so they can descend the stairs together. He's needed constant protection for so long that neither of them feel comfortable very far apart. And it's been two days since he slept, so he's a little unsteady on his feet due to exhaustion.

"I want to hear all about your trip."

Liz is waiting with wine glasses and an array of salty snacks, and once again Red has the unfamiliar sensation of coming home. She bought his favorite kind of olives, and he likes all the cheeses as well.

And he's fussy about cheese.

Red and Dembe alternate stories, then finally a silence falls, and Liz sits up slightly, leaning forward. Red can tell she's wearing underthings now, from the lines visible through the thin cotton, and for a moment he wonders what she felt, holding him so tight. Was there even a spark of attraction on her part, at all?

Then her next words completely redirect his thoughts.

"Red, now that we've caught up, I want to discuss baby names."

She looks over at Dembe, but the big man just shrugs.

"Don't ask me," he says, before reaching for another handful of nuts.

Red gives Dembe a reproving glance, then focuses on Liz. If she's choosing names, what does that mean?

"Do you want to know the sex? In advance?" she asks him, looking a little anxious.

Red wants to know everything in the world he possibly can, about anything and everything. Of course he wants to know.

He fixes his eyes on her face. Is she happy with what she's learned? Disappointed?

"Yes, Lizzie."

"We're having a boy." She smiles proudly at him. "Your first son."

Quickly, Red stuffs the possible implications of that statement down deep, for later consideration. Is she planning to have more than one child?

Or perhaps she's just thinking of his lost daughter?

"Are you happy to be having a boy?" he asks her, unable to contain the joy which pulls his face into a smile.

She nods, her thick dark hair falling over her face. She sweeps it back over her shoulders, and he remembers the feel of it against his face when they embraced, sweet smelling and still slightly damp.

Intoxicating. He wishes he could pulls her close in bed, bury his face in her hair, and sleep for an entire day and night.

"So, I've been thinking about names." She pauses, looking a little uncertain.

Dembe crunches down loudly on a nut, clearly unwilling to enter the conversation.

"Go on," Red encourages her. He assumes she'll call the baby Sam, or Samuel, although his friend never liked the longer form of his name. She can't possibly be thinking of Ray or Raymond; she knows he prefers Red now. It's what she calls him.

"Your father's name was Richard. So, I was thinking of Richard Samuel."

He stares at her in disbelief. Of course information on his deceased parents was included in his FBI file, but he never expected her to consider his family in choosing a name.

"Red?"

He's been silent too long.

"You never talk about him. Do you not like the idea?"

He likes the idea so much his throat is choked with emotion. He spreads his hands in a little gesture of surrender, as if to say, I have no words.

"I only know his service record. And how long he was married. Not anything about him as man. As a father."

She's giving him time to collect himself. He can feel Dembe looking over at him, concerned.

Richard Reddington. Larger than life, a war hero, a dedicated officer. His big, freckled hands, unexpectedly capable of the most delicate work, repairing clocks and watches as a hobby. A man who could fix anything he put his mind to, a slow reader, a practical joker. Almost silent in contrast with Red's vivid, vivacious mother, who chattered constantly and adored her husband until the day she died.

A stern, demanding father who expected obedience and rewarded it with terse words of praise, so accurate they make Red's heart swell even now, just as his critiques flayed effortlessly to the bone. His touch so gentle when Red was ill or injured, his love conveyed almost entirely without words.

What would he say if he were alive, to his first and perhaps only grandson being named Richard Keen?

Red blinks his eyes and takes another sip of his wine. His second glass. He needs to slow down. Maudlin is never appealing.

"I thought we could call him Ricky. Until he's older."

Red nods again. He can tell she wants him to say something about his father, tell her a story from his childhood.

He seldom talks about his early life. Obviously, that will have to change. He never considered that particular implication, somehow. In becoming a father, he's become part of her family. He knew that, of course, he longs almost violently in his secret heart for any degree of closeness he thinks she might allow. But their new relationship does entitle her, and the child, to more than just biographical information from an FBI file.

Red clears his throat.

"Ricky Keen? A little too catchy?"

He means his words to come out lightly, but Liz looks startled.

"No, Ricky Reddington," she corrects him at once. "Don't you want him to have your name?"


	11. Her Work

Liz lays her right hand on the high swell of her belly, feeling her son kick as she clings to the edge of the sink with her left. Seven months along, and she already feels huge. He's not a large baby, but he's extremely active.

She keeps replaying the scene in her mind, when she told Red she wanted the baby to have his name.

He was close to crying when he hurriedly left the room, she was almost certain of it. Dembe hustled after him, his face drawn tight with worry, and later came down to tell her that Red was exhausted, and needed to sleep. Dinner that night was a stilted affair, until she managed to get enough wine into Dembe that he relaxed and told her stories from his college days, which she tried to top with stories of her own.

They like some of the same bands, and plays, and novels. He's quite charming when he wants to be, and his comments are pithy and occasionally explosively funny.

By the third time she broke down in giggles, he finally smiled at her and something like an amicable relationship between them resumed. But she hasn't yet dared to ask why he seemed at first to be so opposed to her pregnancy.

"Miss Liz? Where do you want these things?"

Liz turns to find her housekeeper Dimitra carrying a large box from the terrace, filled with small gifts from her baby shower earlier in the day. Several of her expat friends are leaving for the summer, having rented out their homes for excessive amounts of money, so they planned the celebration prior to departure.

The new tile in the nursery down the hall from her bedroom still isn't complete.

Liz shrugs.

"Perhaps in one of the guest rooms, for now?"

Dimitra nods and pads towards the stairs. A small, plump woman, she moves slowly and almost silently through the house, cleaning and organizing with extreme efficiency. 

Red acted normal the next day, Liz remembers, drying her hands and walking slowly to her office, a small room next to the kitchen. He was probably just overtired. The heavy metal door unlocks with her fingerprint plus a numeric code. The biometrics were expensive, but worth it for security.

The work she does for Red's associates, and a few select government contacts as well, is highly confidential.

Closing the door behind her, she surveys her work environment with satisfaction: two computers and a tray of phones on chargers, diffuse light slanting in from the high, narrow windows below the eaves, their position precluding any surveillance.

One wall is paneled in cork painted white, with photos and names pinned all over it.

The only change since her pregnancy is the addition of a high backed cane rocker in one corner.

Liz smiles happily and gives her belly a little pat.

"Time to earn some money, Ricky," she says, locking the door behind her.

She's paid for results, not for her time. She wants to complete at least two more jobs before she delivers.

Red's accounts are always available to her, but she likes earning her own money. And some of the cases are fascinating.


	12. A Change of Plans

"She's decided to do what?"

Red looks up from the schematics his contractor recently stole from the Department of Defense, and meets Dembe's gaze in disbelief.

Dembe shrugs, his big shoulders moving easily in the loose Hawaiian print shirt he's pulled on over his nylon swim trunks, the orange and white flowers contrasting poorly with the fluorescent green of the trunks. His eyes are hidden behind dark plastic sunglasses.

"And why did she inform you, instead of me?" Red demands.

"We talk every week, after her prenatal appointment," Dembe responds. "Sometimes more often."

Red scratches his head, glances down at the schematics, then back at Dembe.

"She calls you every week?" he asks, finally. Liz rarely calls him. Perhaps once a month. Red keeps that phone at his side even in the bathroom, to avoid missing a call.

"No. I call her."

Red blinks slowly at Dembe. They've both been busy since arriving on Oahu, but while Red has been working nonstop on an elaborate plan to ensnare the latest blacklister, Dembe has mostly been surfing.

Or at least, that's what Red thought he was doing.

"And why has she decided to give birth at home, rather than in that perfectly nice hospital suite in Athens?"

He's had a new birthing suite built and decorated to his exact specifications, along with an attached surgical suite should further intervention be necessary. There's a helipad atop the building, and carefully selected physicians and nurses on rotating call since her sixth month of pregnancy.

"Apparently, one of her expat friends is a retired midwife. She's convinced Elizabeth that having Ricky at home would be much easier and more comfortable for them both."

Red tilts his head and frowns at Dembe, his mind working furiously. Easier? More comfortable? What on earth did either of those considerations have to do with the safety of his son?

Dembe lowers his brows, apparently divining Red's thoughts.

"And no, Raymond, it would not be appropriate to simply remove this midwife from the island. Elizabeth's physician has no objection to her attempting a trial of labor at home."

Red stares down at the schematics again, not really seeing them. He feels the weight of Dembe's hand on his shoulder, warm even through his customary suit jacket and vest.

"You don't call her?" Dembe asks him.

The simple question crosses boundaries they established long ago. But Dembe doesn't seem as opposed to the pregnancy any longer. He just sounds curious, and a little sad.

"No, I want to give her space." Red clears his throat, ventures a little further when Dembe's hand gives his tight shoulder muscles a gentle squeeze. "I thought she might come to miss me, in time."

"I think she does, Raymond." Dembe steps closer and places his other hand on Red's other shoulder, then massages them both at once, the pressure almost too hard. Red closes his eyes as tremors run through him.

"God, Dembe, that feels so good."

"She always asks about you. I think she would welcome your calls."

Red takes several slow, deep breaths as Dembe finishes the brief massage and lets him go.

"She has my number," he says shortly, twisting his neck from side to side. He needs to get up and stretch more often. He hasn't been to the beach since they arrived. "And she's still working, so I know she's well."

"Has she sent you any photos recently?" Dembe asks, pulling his phone from the breast pocket of his shirt.

"Just the latest ultrasound."

Red abandons any pretense of examining the schematics and watches eagerly as Dembe scrolls through his phone.

"Here. This is two days ago."

Liz in a bright blue bikini, her protruding belly almost perfectly round. She looks tan and healthy, reclining on a towel on a pebbled beach, her face shaded by a large straw sunhat.

"Oh." Red's eyes devour her, the delicate silver charm bracelet on one wrist, the big, expensive designer sunglasses that cover half her face. "Who took the photo?"

Dembe reaches for the phone, but Red pulls it away.

"Jean, the midwife. She's the godmother of Miriam, the girl Elizabeth hired as a nanny."

"Are there any more?"

Dembe sighs.

"Yes, Raymond. Give me the phone."


	13. Water

At 40 weeks, Red will arrive. That's tomorrow. Liz wanders through the house, feeling curiously unsettled. He and Dembe plan to stay until Ricky is born, and as long as she wants them, afterward.

Dembe has called her twice every day for the last three weeks, morning and evening, just to be sure she hasn't gone into labor.

Red hasn't called her at all. Which is understandable, given the damage from a recent attempt at poisoning him by a now-deceased blacklister. But he's written her several long, amusing emails.

His throat should be fine by now.

She's missed him so much.

Liz steps out into the heat of late afternoon, looks down from the terrace at the bright blue sea below, the white foam breaking in smooth lines against the cliffs. She'd love to swim, but somehow she doesn't want to leave the house. Red has offered to put in a pool, after their baby is born. She doesn't want to deal with construction while she's pregnant.

She had brunch plans in the village this morning, but she canceled them, preferring to sit in the kitchen cutting up and eating fresh fruit. The little fluttering kicks, the occasional cramps, all presage her eventual labor. Jean has assured her that she will know the difference. That true contractions will be regular, and consistent.

Liz looks out at the empty sea, unwilling to go back into the house. She's completed her last project, so there's no work to be done. Dimitra has scrubbed the house and prepared food for tomorrow's meals.

She doesn't know what time to expect Red, or in what fashion he'll arrive. If she calls Dembe, he'll tell her.

Or maybe she should just call Red. His emailed letters hinted at his desire for more frequent contact, but always in such elusive ways. The last one was so cryptic she couldn't help but wonder whether some woman was leaning over his shoulder and reading it as he wrote.

Liz hasn't asked Dembe about Madame Tang, or any other woman, for that matter. None of the female associates with whom she's worked have displayed any emotion beyond a clear respect for Red. They haven't been particularly curious about her, either, so she assumes her pregnancy is not common knowledge.

She has to admit that she's curious, though. Liz knows the general type of woman who attracts Red. Ressler walked her through his known romantic history in her first month at the Post Office, not without a certain smug expression on his face. Close to his own age and invariably wealthy, Red's past lovers have been both intelligent and worldly. Sophisticated women with unique skills and abilities. 

She's nothing in comparison.

Liz turns her thoughts from that familiar lament with the ease of long practice. She and Red are close enough, bonds of trust built slowly over the years. And now they will be parents together. She should content herself with his affection and support.

Whatever his needs, he's always been discreet. And she's prepared now to focus her energies on a child, not a man.

Liz shades her eyes, wondering if Red will arrive by boat. He loves the ocean, and always appears happier and better rested after sleeping on the water.

Water.

Her skirt and panties are soaking wet, and she looks down in horror at the sudden warmth, expecting to see blood. But the fluid is clear.

Ricky kicks her suddenly, hard, and she feels a cramp seize her from the inside, like a wave of pain, breaking outwards.

The baby. The baby is coming. 

She needs to call the midwife, she needs to alert Dimitra, but first, first, she needs to call Red.


	14. The Birth

"Stop, Raymond."

Dembe stares at him until Red stops compulsively smoothing his gloves and tucks them away in his overcoat pocket.

They're both dressed for cold weather, not the heat of Greece in August, but neither of them were willing to delay long enough to change.

It's two in the morning when the helicopter finally settles into place on the roof of the garage, but the house lights are bright, and the midwife brusquely assures Dembe that they have arrived in time before hanging up on him once again.

Jean is preoccupied with her duties, but she's answered the phone every time Dembe has called.

Red forces himself to walk, rather than run, down the stairs and along the walkway to the front. As he opens the unlocked door, the sound of Liz crying out echoes through the house.

"Lizzie!"

Her bedroom is on the ground floor, just past her office. Red throws his hat and overcoat on the couch and strides rapidly towards the sounds. Her door is open.

He stops in the doorway, mesmerized.

When his first daughter was being born, Red sat in the waiting room for hours, a heavy flower arrangement perched on the vinyl seat beside him. The hospital room into which he was ushered at last contained a narrow metal bed and numerous medical devices.

In contrast, this room is large, with the windows flung open to let in the night breeze, and candles burning on the mantel above the unlit fireplace. The colorful paintings and photographs on the white walls, and the heavy shelves laden with books, all speak to their occupant's taste and interests.

Red faced and panting, Liz is kneeling on the bed, clutching the foot board, clad in nothing but a tight white cotton tank top. Her belly is enormous, her skin stretched tight.

"Red!" she gasps. Her hair is pulled back in a long, loose braid down her back, and she stretches out one hand to him briefly before gritting her teeth and grabbing for support again. 

"That's good, just breathe on through," the midwife tells her in an encouraging voice. Jean. Red looks at her, finds the tidy older woman he's met only via Skype giving him a frankly assessing glance, her pale green scrubs in sharp contrast to her darkly tanned skin and short silver hair.

"She wants you here," Jean tells him. "So you might want to shed a few of those things."

He's wearing a worsted three piece suit and a wool tie, and his long scarf is still around his neck.

"Fill me in," Red returns brusquely, beginning to strip out his clothing and toss items onto the nearer of the two tall dressers that flank the closet door. He's read enough books on birth at this point to know that the process can take a very long time.

"Red!"

Barefoot, he finishes rolling his shirtsleeves to his elbows and climbs onto the bed.

"I'm here, Lizzie," he tells her in the most reassuring tone he can manage. Her face is contorted as she breathes with her eyes closed, and he can't escape the thought that she's being tortured right in front of him.

"That's right, just turn her there," the midwife directs him, and he clambers into a sitting position at the headboard and holds out his arms. 

"Brace yourself on me, Lizzie," he tells her, and as she moves into position, clinging to him in a parody of an embrace, Jean climbs on the bed as well. 

"Red, Red," she sobs, her screams tearing at his heart. 

Time dilates and shrinks at the pace of her contractions. He finds himself pressing on her back. Clutching her hands. Wiping her sweaty face with a cool cloth, then swiping it over his own face. His suit pants are hot and filthy; at some point he discards them, the thick cotton of his boxers as opaque as shorts, and covered in any case by the long shirttails of his pinstriped dress shirt.

By the time Jean snaps on her sterile gloves, both he and Liz are exhausted, and the rosy glow of dawn is slanting faintly through the windows.

Dembe has been in and out several times with carafes of chilled water and fresh towels. He's minimally dressed in white shorts and a tank top, dozing occasionally on the couch beneath a blanket.

"Here he comes. That's good, honey, just a little more." Jean's voices oozes warmth and encouragement. She's been talking to Liz for hours, her calm never faltering.

Liz is sitting up now, with Red behind her, her head leaning back against his shoulder, their fingers intertwined. He looks down her heaving body, past her newly full breasts outlined by the white tank, to her bare thighs spread as she screams once again.

He thought he desired her before, imagined his first sight of her body so many, many times.

And yet it is this moment, the first glimpse of his son's tiny head emerging, impossibly, from that space between her legs, that imprints on him how much he loves her. 

Their Ricky, slipping safely into the world, is caught securely in the midwife's hands and lifted carefully to lie against his mother's chest.

Liz pulls up her tank and cuddles him against her bare breasts, tears streaming down her face.

"Oh Red. Oh, Red, he's so beautiful."

Dembe is snuffling in the doorway, the midwife is touching the cord, waiting for it to stop pulsing. She passes Liz a baby blanket to drape over her lap, covers Ricky with another one, head to toe.

And Red is weeping soundlessly, his face pressed to the top of Liz's head, his arms still encircling her. And their son.


	15. This Particular Story

Liz lies in bed, nursing Ricky with her head and shoulders propped up on three feather pillows and his small body supported by two more.

He's so tiny. He's perfect.

It feels like all she does is nurse him and sleep.

Red and Dembe are taking care of everything, having sent the nanny away with instructions not to return until summoned.

She'd argue with them, but watching them care for Ricky makes her heart ache.

Those watchful eyes, those deadly hands. Dangerous criminals, but so gentle with her boy.

They take turns walking him and changing him. Preparing elaborate meals, when all she wants is simple food. And many glasses of water. Nursing is thirsty work.

"Lizzie?"

There's a light tap at the door.

Red pokes his head in and peers at Ricky before smiling across the room at her.

"Almost done," she tells him, and he comes to sit on the side of the bed, watching as Ricky lets out tiny gasps of contentment, his sucking motions slowing, his eyes fluttering closed.

She doesn't know what color his eyes will be when he's older - right now they are a limpid blue, just a shade lighter than her own. She's still hoping for green.

"Shall I take him to his crib?" Red whispers. Ricky sleeps a great deal these days, as well.

Liz puts out her hand, her fingers sliding over the soft hair on Red's exposed forearm. He's always in his shirtsleeves, but the short sleeved shirt is new, and today he's even wearing shorts. Long, meticulously ironed linen shorts, but it's a start.

"Wait a little," she whispers back, giving his arm a squeeze. "He's almost asleep, but not quite."

Her tan fingers lie still against his pale skin, faintly freckled. She idly traces the edge of an old scar, round and white, before it sinks in that it's a cigarette burn.

"Not a story to tell around a child." His mouth quirks as he pulls his arm away.

"Just covered with stories, aren't you Red?" she teases softly.

"You'd be surprised," he returns in a very dry voice, his eyes still on Ricky.

"Try me," she says, reaching for his arm again. Their eyes meet, and hold. 

He swallows.

"Let me put him in his room," he says, then scoops up Ricky against his chest and carries him away.

That was almost a retreat, she thinks drowsily to herself. I wonder if he'll come back, or just wander off instead.

But Red returns, and shuts the door before coming to sit at her bedside once again.

"I should have told you this particular story a long time ago, Lizzie," he says, his face grave and abashed. "Some of my contacts know this about me. I wouldn't want you to find out from anyone else."

Liz pushes herself up a little further against the pillows, then holds out her hands.

"Whatever it is, you can tell me."

He gives her hands a little squeeze, but doesn't hold on.

"When you recovered that memory of the fire, did you remember how you got out?"

The fire. She shakes her head, looking concerned.

"No, I assumed that my mother carried me out ..."

Her voice trails off as Red starts unbuttoning his shirt. 

"I'll just show you a little, you can imagine the rest."

His chest is pale and lightly furred - except for the time he was shot, she's never seen him with more than his collar undone. There's a vulnerability to his collarbone, the little curls of hair that encircle his small, pink nipples. He unbuttons his shirt almost to his waist, then turns his back and eases it down on one shoulder.

Liz covers her mouth with both hands.

Deep burn scars, slick and pale, cover his exposed flesh. He must have been seared nearly to the bone. 

"You?" Her voice comes out tiny with shock.

He nods, then pulls his shirt back up, buttoning it to his throat before turning to face her once again.

"That's why you didn't want to swim with me, the last time you visited."

"That, and my swim trunks seemed to have mysteriously shrunk." His expression lightens, inviting her to smile, but her thoughts race onwards.

"Why didn't my mother ...?" 

Red shakes his head sadly, his eyes compassionate on her face.

"She left me?"

He nods again, then reaches out to take her hand between both of his. 

"I barely got you out in time. And I was so badly injured that I knew I couldn't protect you." He's speaking so quietly she has to lean forward to hear. "That's why I brought you to Sam. And by the time I recovered ..." He gives a little shrug, a smile flickering across his lips. "You were happy. You were calling Sam 'Daddy.'"

Liz feels the shock like a fist to her still soft, tender stomach. If it hadn't been for those burns, Red would have raised her? She would have grown up with him, and not Sam, for a father?

No wonder he's never been attracted to her. How was he even willing to have a child with her?

Liz looks at him curiously, his green eyes watchful as he meets her gaze, his lips twitching.

What else doesn't she know about Raymond Reddington? After almost four weeks, her profiler's mind slowly begins to come alive once more.

He'll tell her the truth, if only she figures out the right questions to ask.


	16. It's Time

"It's time to go away, Raymond."

Dembe is drying the last of their supper dishes and placing them back on the open shelves where Liz displays her collection of local pottery.

Red, perched on a stool nearby with a glass of wine and a crossword puzzle, looks up in pretend concern.

"Why, Dembe? Are you getting bored?"

They've been on the island a full six weeks. Ricky is an easy baby. Liz is already working at least two hours a day.

Dembe rolls his eyes at Red's teasing. He's been gone a great deal recently, spending time with friends from the expat community.

Of course he's not bored.

"There's no danger. The situation is being carefully monitored."

Red knows he sounds defensive, but he's afraid of what's coming next. Sure enough, Dembe hangs the damp dishtowel carefully on the handle of the stove before picking up his own wine glass and coming to sit beside Red.

"Elizabeth doesn't need us anymore. You must allow her to get back to her own life."

Her own life. With Ricky. Without Red.

"You think she's asking too many questions." 

"Yes." Dembe's tone is final. "And if I can see how you feel about her written all over your face, then she will soon, too."

Red bites his lip.

It's true that he sometimes gets the uncomfortable feeling that Liz is profiling him, and not to his credit. 

He enjoys telling her stories about his parents, and his childhood. Some of them are stories he hasn't told for twenty years, or more.

But he's managed to avoid any further discussions about his scars. 

"I'm not ready yet, Dembe."

"Raymond, you never will be." He pours more wine into Red's glass, then his own, finishing off the bottle. "You love her, and you love Ricky. Leaving isn't going to get any easier."

He tilts his glass towards Red, and they clink glasses, then drink. Red swallows the last of his wine, then crumples up the crossword, no longer interested in completing it.

He knows he needs to leave. But if he does so, he'll return as a guest. A stranger to his small son. He can't remember spending so much time with either of his daughters, those early months a sleepy blur of diapers and bottles and arguments.

But every morning he wakes up happy, looking forward to another day with Ricky. 

And Lizzie. He loves her so much that he's sure Dembe is right. 

He needs to leave before he reveals too much. Makes her uncomfortable around him.

Why doesn't happiness ever last?


	17. Too Much

Liz creeps backwards in the darkness on bare feet, crouching over at the waist in her care to remain silent.

She woke early from her nap and heard the men talking, so she decided to tiptoe down the hall and eavesdrop.

Red loves her? He's leaving?

When she finally reaches her room undetected, she shuts the door and flings herself face down on the bed, trying to make sense of her thoughts.

Just how does he love her? As the mother of his child, or something more?

And what does she feel about him?

Liz rolls onto her back, then adjusts her heavy, aching breasts in her nursing bra.

Ricky is growing normally, Jean has assured her again and again. He'll eat more if he's hungry. But Liz sometimes feels like she has enough milk for two babies. She doesn't feel sexy at all, with her body slowly recovering from giving birth, and her ears tuned to any small sound her baby makes. 

If Red has actually fallen in love with her, he's been deliberately concealing that fact from her. 

So he doesn't want to act on his feelings, for some reason. Liz can't imagine what that might be, but then again, she doesn't really know that much about his life apart from her after their shared time as fugitives ended.

And Dembe wants him to leave. She trusts Dembe's judgment.

It may not be a romantic sort of love. Maybe he's just becoming too attached. 

Her cheeks begin to burn as she suddenly realizes that perhaps, instead, Red can tell that she's becoming too comfortable in his presence. Too affectionate. She may be the one who has become too attached.

And he needs to leave in order to let her down easily.

But that makes no sense.

Liz closes her eyes and tries to think like a profiler, not a thirsty, hungry, nursing mother, rolling in maternal hormones. If she has to guess, the most obvious explanation is the simplest. 

He's in love with her, but unsure whether she can, or will, ever return the sentiment.

Liz sits up in bed, feeling her heart pounding faster at the thought. Is it possible Red actually desires her? Wants to stay and raise Ricky with her?

It's too much to take in. She can't imagine undressing in front of him right now, not with the shape her once trim body is in, although he's certainly seen her nursing often enough. And how would she feel if he allowed her to see and touch the entirety of his horribly burned back? His battered, wounded body is as damaged physically as she once accused him of being emotionally.

Does she love him enough to accept whatever that damage might mean about his life? His former lovers?

She knows that a woman burned that cigarette mark into his forearm. Just not her name.

He's the opposite of Tom Keen, the man she thought she'd married. Except that Red is kind, and strong, and he loves children.

Oh, and he's so much more deadly than Jacob Phelps.

Liz rubs her forehead wearily. She may just be inventing all this. If she encourages Red to leave, then she'll have time alone to sort out her own feelings.

The next time he visits, she can approach him cautiously, if she's really willing to consider the possibility of something more between them. But in a way that leaves him plenty of room to back away, to signal her if the contrary is true.

And if she's not ready to take that step? They can always maintain their current relationship, which is close enough that he was willing to have a child with her, after all.

She rubs her head again as a soft wail sounds from the room next door. Ricky is finally awake. She's more than ready to feed him.

When Red brings their son to her, wrapped in a soft green blanket and wearing a fresh dry diaper, she smiles up at him with tolerable composure.

"Did I hear that you're planning to leave soon?" she asks him.


	18. A Virtual Visit

Red and Dembe jostle each other companionably as they settle into their seats on the jet and power up the screen.

Dembe has a bag of popcorn, and Red an unbroached bottle of cognac.

Together, with the assistance of Ricky's nanny Miriam, they will enjoy yet another visit with the happy, playful baby.

He should just have been fed, after awakening from a long nap. It took a while to fine tune their timing, but now, no matter where in the world they are, they schedule this one fifteen minute block for their virtual visit.

The screen comes on, and Ricky's round, smiling face appears, a few strands of light, reddish blond hair sticking up at the very crown. He's accustomed to this part of his daily routine by now, and he giggles as Dembe lifts and then drops a piece of popcorn.

The nanny hands Ricky a small, plastic block, and he happily drops it as well, chortling back at Dembe.

Liz will be working, as usual. 

Red smiles and watches from the periphery, waving occasionally. He and Dembe have found that taking turns works best with Ricky. He doesn't have the social skills yet to switch from one face to the other.

Four months old, and Red has only seen him once in the interim. A flying visit of less than 36 hours, when Liz was sick with the flu, and needed their support.

He misses them both so much. At least he and Dembe are finally on their way back. For a longer visit, this time.

Red sips cognac and watches Miriam skillfully redirect Ricky's attention back to the screen if his gaze starts to wander. Dembe is eating the popcorn now in huge bites as Ricky claps with excitement. Not for the first time, it occurs to Red that someday Dembe will make an excellent father.

The phone in his pocket rings, and he stands and steps away to take the call in the aisle of the plane. 

Liz.

She calls him almost weekly now, and he occasionally reciprocates. Usually with some excuse for the call, such as an offer to purchase items for the house in yet another city.

"Red? I was wondering how soon you and Dembe were planning to visit again?"

Red cocks his head, not sure what he's hearing. Does she want him to visit, or not?

"Why?" he asks. They're less than an hour from Athens at this point, but if it's not convenient, they can always divert to eastern Europe. He decides usually when and where to travel on the spur of the moment, to avoid being predictable.

"I've been thinking about visiting Rome soon - I need to shop. But I don't want to miss you."

He clears his throat.

"Actually, we're on our way now."

Silence for a moment, in which Red's heart begins to ache.

"Excellent." Her voice is crisp, but welcoming. "I'll expect you for dinner tonight, then?"

"Yes. We'll bring the wine."

More silence. He finds himself curiously tongue-tied, sensing there's a question she needs to ask him, some unexpressed concern on her part.

"Lizzie?"

"I'll see you soon, then." She pauses, and he waits, listening to her breathing through the phone. "I'm glad you're coming."

Better.

"So am I, Lizzie." Red tries not to allow too much feeling to leak into those simple words, but perhaps he fails, because she says a brisk goodbye and the phone disconnects.

Liz shops for clothing in Rome or Paris, so he assumes that she's recovering her figure. He's discouraged her from visiting New York, despite her pardon. Better to give it a few years, allow her face to fade from public memory.

His own face isn't that memorable, especially when concealed by long hair and the beginnings of a beard. He has Alan Fitch to thank for the poor quality of the image on his most wanted poster.

He couldn't grow a dark beard like that now if he tried, and his hair has retreated further and silvered enough that he'd need a wig to approximate that hairdo. He's tried various wigs over the years, in the interest of maintaining anonymity in certain transactions, but he always feels a little self-conscious, no matter how well constructed and firmly attached they have been.

Would Liz find him more appealing, more youthful, with a full head of hair? 

"Raymond? Are we bringing anything besides wine?"

It's Dembe. The video call has ended, as he stood silently pondering hairpieces.

Thank god Dembe can't read his mind, although he's often very intuitive where Red is concerned. Red feels foolish enough as it is, daydreaming about Liz once again.

"Just the box of toys for Ricky. Oh, and that little hat you bought him in Melbourne."

Dembe bought a small, hand-stitched fedora at a shop that sold clothing for dolls and teddy bears. They both hope it fits Ricky's round, almost hairless head.


	19. Teething

Dinner was intended to be a delightful, protracted meal.

Ricky has other ideas. 

He's teething already, a little early, but Red assures Liz that his own teeth came in early. She has no information about herself in infancy. 

Liz and Dembe nibble at the over-large array of food as Red paces the terrace, cuddling Ricky against his chest and patting him when he begins to hiccup and sob once again.

"How long are you planning to stay?" Liz asks Dembe, sipping mineral water with lemon as she watches him drinking white wine with a touch of envy. She's careful not to have more than one glass a day, since she's nursing, and she already consumed it while nervously awaiting their arrival.

Her elegant blue dress has wet marks from Ricky's mouth on both shoulders, and she's already discarded her heels. This really isn't how she intended the evening to go.

"Raymond would like to stay longer, this time," he answers, smiling genially to soften the evasion.

There's an outraged squall from the terrace, and Red's voice softly hushing Ricky in response.

"Maybe not after tonight," she responds a little glumly.

Miriam has already departed, since Liz gave her the next three days off, to allow Red and Dembe to spend more time with Ricky. Evidently a very poor decision.

Poor Red has barely touched his food, and he's only had half a glass of the wine she has been saving since her last trip to Paris. The candles are burning down, and the flowers in the crystal vase are wilting.

"Elizabeth, do not be nervous," Dembe reproves her, for all the world as if he can read her mind. She's heard him speak that way to Red, watched his mobile face react as Dembe speaks to his thoughts, rather than his surface chatter.

Has she overdone her attention to her appearance, the quality of the meal? Has Dembe somehow divined that she's trying to make this evening special, more than just a welcome to them both?

He laughs and shakes his head as she tilts her head, considering him.

Previously so negative about her pregnancy, he's seemingly fallen under Ricky's spell as much as Red. He even bought her baby a tiny fedora.

"Let me take a turn," Dembe says, draining his wine glass and rising from the table, then heading for the terrace.

Red comes inside shortly, wiping his hands on a baby blanket.

He's in his shirtsleeves, tie and jacket and coat discarded, and the neck of his dress shirt gapes open, exposing a pale triangle of skin.

"I'm sorry, Red ..." she begins, breaking off as he raises one hand in protest, then reaches for his wine glass.

"No, Lizzie, I'm sorry I haven't been here more, to help you with Ricky," he responds. She watches in helpless fascination as he tilts his head back and drinks, the tendons in his neck flexing, the candlelight catching on the silver in his sideburns, the darker hair at his throat and the scant reddish-blond fuzz on the back of his hands.

There must have been a good reason that he's been gone so long. She doesn't want to sound pathetic, asking him why he's stayed away.

"Tell me about what you and Dembe have been doing?" she asks instead.

He grins at her, then seats himself and begins to eat before launching into one story after another, at times waving his fork for emphasis. 

Liz sighs and sits back to listen, enjoying the sight of him, ignoring the tightening knot of tension in her stomach. Whatever happens, whatever he tells her he wants, surely things will always be fine between them.


	20. Not The Evening She Planned

Dembe is still walking Ricky when Liz finally goes to bed. Red ushers her off to her room rather forcefully as she begins to droop in her seat, promising to bring Ricky to her once he's ready to nurse.

Not the evening she planned for them, not at all.

Liz strips out of her elegant gown and brand new lingerie, and dumps them into the laundry hamper in her closet before stepping wearily into a brief, cool shower. She ignores the drawer full of equally lacy night clothes, some still with their tags on, and pulls on a purple cotton tank and boy shorts, a little tight, but soft on her skin.

Then she crawls into bed, wanting to cry with disappointment, but falls asleep instead, almost the moment her head touches her pillow.

"Lizzie? He's ready for you."

Liz wakes to find Red at her bedside, holding Ricky cuddled against his chest, sucking unhappily and forcefully on Red's little finger. The room is dim, illumined only by a small yellow nightlight.

"Here."

Liz throws back the covers and pats the bed at her side, rolling towards Red and pulling up her tank on one side.

He leans down and lays Ricky beside her, his hands almost brushing her bare breast. Then he straightens and smiles down at them both as Ricky latches on with enthusiasm.

"Wait, Red," she calls out softly, as he turns to leave. "Can you lie down and talk to me for a little? Then take him to his crib once he's asleep?"

He looks down at her with what appears to be an unnecessarily serious expression, then sits on the side of her bed and begins removing his shoes.

Perhaps it was just the light.

Moving slowly so as not to bounce the bed, Red stretches out on his side opposite her, his deep-shadowed eyes intent on Ricky's face.

"What do you want to talk about, Lizzie?" he responds softly, not meeting her eyes. Ricky has raised his small hand and set it possessively on the curve of her exposed breast. Lying propped up on one elbow, Red seems fascinated by the process.

She's been closer to him physically, when he held her on this bed as she delivered their son. But this is their first time to just lie down in bed together.

The jolt of shock she feels at that realization startles Ricky, and his eyes pop open, comically worried for a second. 

Liz rolls forward and switches breasts, expertly fitting her nipple down into his open mouth. Ricky suckles loudly, then settles into a rhythm once again.

"Oh, lots of things," she temporizes. "I just don't want to fall asleep."

Red rolls his eyes at her, but he's still lying there smiling, fully dressed with his belly falling loose over the tight line of his belt and dress trousers, his cuffs still buttoned.

"Tell me more about your family," she asks him, closing her eyes and trying to visualize milk flowing into Ricky's body. Teething has disrupted his feeding schedule. If he doesn't nurse for long enough, he'll be awake in the next four hours.

"My mother wanted grandchildren," he responds in a quiet voice. "But she didn't live to see them."

'She was ill for a long time, wasn't she?" Liz responds, opening her eyes to watch Red's face as Ricky continues to nurse. Red talks more about his father, as if his memories of his mother Lillian, who was diagnosed with cancer while he was still in high school, are almost too private.

"Almost half my life, when she died." He's still looking down at Ricky, but his face is soft with grief now, not affection. "I think watching my father was the worst of it."

"You felt the same way about Sam, didn't you?" she says, the words coming without effort from some deep place inside her. Lying here in the dark, with their son between them, she feels oddly connected to Red, closer than she's felt in a long time.

"What do you mean?"

"You didn't want to watch me suffer that same way. You weren't just sparing him pain, you were protecting me."

"And myself." His voice is rough, with a hint of that shame she can hear only at times like these, when it's so close to the surface.

All her mistakes and her failures, the way she's betrayed her own principles and her country. A familiar shame, though much more recent.

He expects too much of himself. Although that may be exactly why he can achieve such extraordinary results. She wants to reach over and touch him, but she couldn't bear it if he flinched, or drew away.

"I think he'll sleep for a while, now," she says instead. "Come back once you put him down, please?"

Red nods, standing and scooping Ricky's loose limbs close against him. He pads out silently in his stocking feet, leaving the door open. Sitting up, Liz looks over the edge of the bed at his dress shoes. In the pale light slanting in from the hall, she notices something, reaches down to touch the inside of his right shoe to confirm.

Lifts. There are lifts built into his shoes, to increase his height.

What other secrets are hidden beneath his clothing?


	21. In Bed

At her bedroom door, Red pauses for a moment, trying to decide whether to close it behind him or not. He's so tired even the simplest of choices requires far too much thought.

Dembe is surely asleep upstairs.

But the hall light, a thick glass sconce, needs to remain on throughout the night.

"Red?" Her voice is sleepy, but welcoming.

He shuts the door behind him, almost tiptoes to her bedside.

"Lizzie?"

She pats the bed.

"Come and lie down again," Liz says, looking up at him at she rolls onto her back. She's lovely, with her dark hair spread out on the pillow, her surprisingly full breasts outlined by the tight purple tank.

"We both need to sleep, Lizzie," he tells her, weary beyond measure, but unable to turn his back on her just yet. The covers are still down around her waist, and as he watches she stretches her slim, tan arms over her head, then reaches one hand out to him.

"You could go put on your pajamas, then come lie down with me," she suggests, her hand still outstretched. "We could talk until one of us falls asleep."

That sounds like heaven, to sleep beside her in her wide, comfortable bed. To pretend this is actually his home, not just the home of his heart.

"Oh, Lizzie," he says, trying to force a laugh. "All those weeks on the run together, and you never noticed that I don't own pajamas?"

Her eyes widen, and her lips part, and Red reviews his words quickly, but finds no cause for her suddenly wary gaze. Or is it wary?

He stands looking down at her in the dimly lit room, his exhausted mind finally registering what she's asking him.

She wants him in her bed. And like a fool he's telling her no.

Red opens his mouth to suggest something, anything, but she speaks first.

"Do you sleep in your boxers, then, or without them?"

The question seems harmless enough, but her eyes are still wide, her hand now lying, palm open, on the bed between them. 

He looks down at that hand, speaks softly without meeting her eyes.

"Without them, Lizzie."

They can discuss this further tomorrow, once they are both better rested. He can order silk pajamas delivered from Paris, or a tailored night shirt from London. A dark paisley would be flattering.

Liz curls her fingers into a fist, then turns her hand over and flattens her palm. Patting the bed beside her.

"Well, get under the covers, then," she tells him. "I'll look away."

Red's eyes fly to her face, but she's turned her head towards the far wall and folded her hands over her belly.

He starts undressing with a numb feeling that resembles shock. He's clean enough, but he hasn't brushed his teeth, and his face is scratchy with stubble.

She just wants to lie in bed together and talk. He needs to remember that.

Red strips completely, laying his clothes at the foot of the bed, then sets his watch on the nightstand with a slight click. As he slides into bed, he remembers Ricky's small body lying in this very spot earlier in the night.

"Oh, Red, I'm glad you're back," she says, rolling over onto her side so that they are facing each other, their heads at the same height on their matching down pillows. 

The covers at her waist level mean he's barely decent. If he bends his knees slightly, he'll touch her legs beneath the folded weight of the doubled bedding. 

"I'll stay longer this time, Lizzie, " he responds, his fingers longing to reach for the rounded curve of her hip, her toned, bare shoulder, the loose strands of hair falling over her face. He tugs at the covers instead, pulling them up over his waist to hide the bulk of his belly. 

There's a soft wail from down the hall. 

"I'll go," Liz says in a soft voice. "Be right back."

Red feels so good. So safe. It's been so long since he's slept through the night. He'll just close his eyes for a moment.


	22. Sleep

She's rarely watched him sleep. Mostly, Red just dozes, his mind always on alert.

Liz has seen him come awake from an apparently deep sleep, guns out and aimed, with no transition at all.

But she's never seen him curled naked on his side, his lips pouting slightly as he breathes evenly through his nose, his features so different without his conscious presence to animate them.

His wrinkles are deeper, his nose larger, his face thinner in repose. The dome of his head gleams slightly, the dark fuzz at the very top like a soft cloud.

Every detail precious to her. 

Ricky looks just like Red's baby pictures, small black and white snapshots he showed her once her pregnancy was confirmed.

She looks down at the bed, at Red who has shifted to the very center, clutching her pillow into the curve of his body. She sleeps like that most nights, too. It tells her more about him than he would probably want her to know.

Does she dare? He's so deeply asleep.

Liz eases into bed with great care, avoiding Red's clothing at the foot of the bed, and curls around the back of his body.

He's warm, and he smells so good. Sharing his pillow, her lips are close to the back of his neck, the carefully trimmed line where his short hair gives way to soft skin, and then below it, the tight smooth scar tissue of his long-healed burns.

Very stealthily, after lying still and breathing in his rhythm for a minute or two, she ventures to wrap her top arm around him.

His arm moves as well, his hand enfolding hers, and she feels the touch of his bare chest for the first time as he curls their joined hands over his heart. His breathing not changing at all.

Cautiously, she bends her knees and brings her legs to touch his legs as well, snuggling closer to his larger form. 

So much better to hold than a pillow. Liz closes her eyes and breathes slowly with Red, her last thought before sleep the wan hope that perhaps Ricky will sleep past five in the morning.


	23. He Was Asleep

Red wakes to another wail from Ricky, the feel of Liz exiting the bed. Moving away from him. He rolls sleepily onto his back and catches a glimpse of her purple clad form as she departs, leaving the hall door open.

She was curled right against him. And he was asleep, unable to savor that feeling.

Red blinks and rubs his eyes. He feels oddly unstrung, as if her mere proximity has relaxed him just as much as the sleep he so desperately needed.

Liz returns, carrying Ricky, and seats herself cross-legged on the bed, then begins nursing him.

"Sorry to wake you, Red," she says softly. "He was sleeping through until last week."

Red nods, ventures a smile. Teething. He does remember teething, although not the sights and smells of nursing. Both of his daughters were bottle-fed.

Liz is so beautiful, even with her messy hair and purple tank blotched with wet marks.

"I'd be awake soon, in any case," he responds, rolling on his side towards her and bending his legs to conceal his growing arousal.

She shakes her head.

"I don't know how you get by on so little sleep," she responds. "Remember that morning in Hawaii?"

Of course he does. It was early in their travels.

She slept in late, while he went for a long swim off the black sand beach directly outside the sliding glass doors of their private, detached hotel suite.

He returned from his swim, still dripping sea water into the concealing terry cloth of his full length hotel robe, to find her frantically arming herself, assuming he had been taken by some enemy.

They left each other notes whenever they separated, after that.

"You were getting ready to go after me, weren't you?" he asks her, watching her bite her lip at the question. That was answer enough, but she shrugs lightly, barely jostling Ricky.

"Yes, I lied. I was going to call Dembe as well."

She had told him at the time she was preparing to follow his instructions, to flee to one of their previously discussed rendezvous points. That was been his plan from the very first day, so that if unexpectedly separated, they could find each other once again.

Or at least, so his associates could find and protect her.

Liz gives him a challenging look. 

"You would have come after me, wouldn't you, Red? Not just caught a flight to the mainland?"

Of course.

Red would drag himself back from the dead, if that was possible, to protect her. And now, their son.

He raises his eyebrows, then tilts his head, silently answering her question.

"You never believe I could feel the same way, though?"

She's looking down at Ricky as she speaks, not meeting his gaze, and Red opens his mouth to respond, then bites back his automatic denial. He's lying naked in her bed. What is she really asking him?

"Hand me that pillow, would you?" She reaches out and he passes her a pillow, which she places under Ricky for support as she shifts him to her other breast. "Thank you. That's better."

"Lizzie?"

He doesn't know what she's asking, so he's not sure how to answer. Red shifts his legs slightly, wanting to reach beneath the covers and adjust himself, but unwilling to do so in front of her.

Liz looks over and gives him a long, neutral stare. It feels as if she's trying to fish around in the back of his mind, to elicit some answer he's unwilling to provide.

Or perhaps she's just reformulating her question. 

Red knows that she's willing to fight to protect him. To kill for him. He wouldn't have allowed her to bear his child if she wasn't a killer. Someone he could trust to protect his family.

"Lizzie? What do you want me to say?" He tries for a coaxing tone, hears his voice emerge a little deeper than usual, hopefully not too caressing.

Her expression closes with a startling finality.

Then she looks down at Ricky.

"Let me get him settled again, and I'll tell you."


	24. Chapter 24

It's past noon before their conversation resumes.

Ricky was ready to play, and not sleep, so Liz took him into the kitchen, allowing Red time to scramble into his clothing in privacy. He headed straight upstairs to shave, shower and change into clean clothing. She gave him such a warm smile in passing as she stood at the stove to heat water for coffee, Ricky balanced on one hip, a short, flowered silk robe covering her minimal sleepwear.

He tries to curb his impatience, and just enjoy the lazy morning with her and Dembe, reading the paper together after eating a protracted breakfast on the terrace, Ricky babbling as they pass him from one lap to another.

But at last he's down for a nap, and Dembe sets off for the village to visit his friends.

Liz emerges from her room in a short blue sun dress, her clean, damp hair falling loose around her shoulders.

Red sets down his phone, and motions her to come outside and sit beside him on the terrace beneath the wide blue cotton umbrella that covers his lounge chair and the empty seat beside him. He's dressed in pale cream linen shorts and a loose white linen shirt, short sleeve and open at the neck. His eyes hidden behind the brown lenses of his customary, metal framed sunglasses. He doesn't plan to remove them, or the straw fedora that further shades his face.

Liz seats herself with a sigh, and stretches her legs out to extend from the umbrella's shadow into the sun. Her feet are bare. Her toenails are painted a glossy fuschia color, the bright color complementing her even tan.

She doesn't ask him the question he expects, though. The one to which he's been trying to develop a palatable answer all morning.

"What have you really been doing, when you've been away so much?"

Her eyes are closed, so all he has to go on is the question itself.

"Just business, Lizzie."

Her tone doesn't sound jealous, just genuinely curious.

"Even with my limited information from the part-time work I'm doing, I can tell you've been contacting people you haven't spoken to for ten years or more." Her tone is reflective. "So, I want to you to tell me. What are you planning?"

He bites at the inside of his cheek, then shrugs.

"You don't need the details, but in general terms, I've been repaying old debts."

Her blue eyes open wide.

"But don't those debts help to keep you safe?"

He shrugs again.

"I've been careful to repay just a little more than I owe."

She nods, licking her lips, her head still tilted back against the back of the lounge chair.

"So you'll have an edge, if they do contact you again." No real inflection in her voice. Just a statement of fact.

He's explained so many things about his world to her. The implications won't take long to sink in.

"Lizzie, I'm no longer a young man." He gives her a reassuring smile, wanting to see her smile back, but she just looks serious. "The Cabal is broken, my enemies are dead or sufficiently weakened."

"Go on."

He tries another smile, feels it fade from his lips beneath the intensity of her gaze.

"Lizzie, what can I say? I'm ready for something different."

"You're winding down your business."

He nods, slitting his eyes at her as she sits up and tilts her head.

"Are you going to disappear, Red? Start over somewhere new?"

She's still not smiling, and there's an ache starting in the pit of his stomach. Too much coffee, he thinks, or too much rich food.

"Do you want me to go, Lizzie?"

The words emerge as almost a threat, bringing to mind the time he spoke similar words, so long ago he feels like a different man. And she's certainly a different woman.

She shakes her head, then puts out her hand. Rests it on his bare forearm for an instant, then allows her fingertips to play lightly over his skin.

Unmistakably a caress.

He looks at her fingers, as she strokes the hair on his forearm in evident appreciation, so smooth in comparison to his aging, lightly freckled skin. Her short fingernails are painted fuschia to match her toes. They trace delicate lines up and down his forearm that waver to avoid old, white scars.

"No, I want you to stay."

"Because of Ricky?" 

He has to ask, even as her fingers open, curling around his wrist, her thumb stroking the back of his hand.

"No, not just for Ricky. For me."

The sea below is a limpid blue that reflects the sky. The white stucco of the terrace seems to swim before his eyes as Red lifts her fingers to his lips, presses kisses to each knuckle, then into her palm.

"I'll stay as long as you want me," he tells her. 

The sun beats down on the umbrella, and her palm is damp to his touch. Red presses his lips to the base of her thumb, then licks a slow line across her palm and up her forefinger. Her skin tastes clean, and salty, and her breathy gasps are all the encouragement he needs.

He knows now what she wanted him to say.


	25. Epilogue

"Richard! Give Melli's truck back right now."

Liz frowns sternly at her two older children before handing her sleeping baby into Miriam's competent arms.

Red follows her from the bedroom and wraps his arms around her from behind before making a mock-stern face over her shoulder at their children, both still holding the truck.

They giggle and Ricky sticks his tongue out at his father saucily, then lets go of the toy.

Liz leans back into Red's strong embrace with a happy sigh. 

"I don't know what I would do without you," she says thankfully, turning her face up and to the side for his kiss. 

"And you're never going to find out," he responds, steering her slowly and inexorably back towards the now child-free bedroom. 

"Oh, Red," she answers in a deliberately dreamy tone, taking small steps and allowing her hips to swing slightly as he maneuvers her into their room and shuts the door with one foot, his lips nibbling at her ear and then her neck. "You're insatiable."

She turns in the circle of his arms, pressing their bodies together as the familiar desire rises up in her, stroking his face as their mouths meet once again. 

A loud crash from the other room causes her to freeze momentarily, but no crying follows. Just angry shouting, then Miriam's soothing tone.

"Lock that door, Lizzie," Red murmurs. "And hurry. Then I'll show you insatiable."

She gives him one more deep, open-mouthed kiss, then steps quickly to the door and turns the deadbolt. 

Just another passionate Saturday morning, a promising start to yet one more happy day together.


End file.
